William Alexander - Ghoulish Song

Whenever Grandfather came home from the bridge, he would sing songs that told stories about the bridge, and sometimes they would be sad stories—but even if they were, he would still sing them in a way that made Kaile and the Snotfish laugh. He sang about ghouls who haunted the Clock Tower, and about pirates who lived on the piers, and about the heartbroken girl who fell down from the Fiddleway and turned into a swan.

Sometimes Kaile accompanied Grandfather’s playing with her own tin whistle, the one he had given her as a nameday present and taught her how to play. It was the one she had given to the Snotfish after Grandfather died, because she didn’t want to play it anymore—the one that now sat at the bottom of a bucket as a ruined lump of slag.

Music ties knots, and unties them, he had told Kaile. Think about a lullaby, one that ties up the world to make it a safe place for sleeping. It doesn’t just convince the child—it convinces the world. Think about a funeral song. It can untie the string we use to hold our grief and let it all spill out. The same song, the very same song, can tie us back together again after we’ve spilled out.

Kaile had listened. Later, at Grandfather’s own funeral, she learned that this was perfectly true. But at the time she had laughed when Snotfish went on about the Guard fighting off armies of ghouls, and how ghoul-guts would spill everywhere. Grandfather had responded by strumming up a lively, ghoul-gut-spilling sort of song.

Kaile shook her head to shake all those memories out of her thoughts and out of her ears. She glanced around the public room to see who needed their cups filled or their plates taken away. No one did. Everyone was listening. Everyone watched the dancing on the makeshift stage. Everyone clapped when it was over, and some threw coins. The juggler came out again, and he managed to catch the coins while still juggling other things.

Kaile clapped longer than anyone else, but she stopped when Mother came in through the kitchen door.

Mother stared at the stage for one long moment without blinking. Her mouth pressed together until it almost disappeared.

“Kaile,” she said, “please join me in the kitchen.”

Kaile joined Mother in the kitchen. It still smelled a little like tin. Father was there, holding water buckets.

“There are goblins on my table,” Mother said.

“Yes,” said Kaile. “I was—”

“There are singing, dancing goblins on top of my table.”

Kaile tried again. “They asked if—”

“On Inspection Day,” Mother went on. “There are goblins singing and dancing on my table, on Inspection Day.”

“Yes,” Kaile said again, trying to sound reasonable. “We don’t have to pay them anything. Except for some supper. They just take tips from the crowd.”

Mother turned to Father. “Throw them out, please,” she said.

“No!” Kaile felt the skin of her face burning. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

Mother looked at her. Father looked at her and shook his head, warning Kaile not to face the floodwaters of her mother’s will. Kaile knew this already. She knew better than to argue head-on with Mother. But she didn’t have time, and she had made a promise, and the goblin with the big hat played bandore like Grandfather used to play.

She stood directly in front of the flood. “They aren’t doing any harm.”

Mother’s voice became calmer, and quieter. “The Guard Captain is coming,” she said. “My oven gets broken whenever performers and the Guard are both in my alehouse at the same time.”

“The goblins promised they wouldn’t hurt the—” Kaile started to say.

“And these actors are Changed,” her mother said, as though Kaile had not said anything. “They might take you away. They might take your brother away.”

Kaile, her mother, and her father all paused to think about whether or not losing the Snotfish would be a bad thing—but none of them joked about it.

“Please don’t throw them out,” Kaile said. Grandfather’s music is here now, even if he isn’t. “Please.”

“Throw them out,” Mother said. “They must be gone before the Guard Captain comes.” She said it to Father, but she said it while looking down at Kaile.

Kaile tried desperately to think of something more to say, something that could change Mother’s mind. She couldn’t think of anything at all.

FATHER BROKE UP THE play. The goblin with the big black hat looked more affronted at the interruption, midsong, than he did at the news that the show was now over.

Kaile stood seething in the kitchen doorway and silently agreed with the goblin. His unplayed notes seemed to hang in the air, or just on the other side of the air, frustrated and unfinished.

She listened to the goblin’s sputtering outrage. She watched his companions hastily stuff their musical instruments, masks, and curtains into boxes, and carry those boxes outside. She didn’t say anything. The patrons of the public room looked on as though this were just another part of the show.

Kaile went back inside the kitchen and let the door shut behind her.

Mother was there. She looked at Kaile and also said nothing. Kaile did not look at her. She refused to look at her. The show was over. The music was gone. The strum of bandore strings had sounded so much like Grandfather’s own playing, and now it was gone.

Outside the kitchen window the old goblin began to curse.

“I will write you into our next play!” he roared. “I will sculpt your face into grotesque caricatures and paste them onto small, ugly puppets!” Kaile went to the window and peeked out. The goblin stood on the roof of their wagon and raged. “I’ll pen your name into immortal verse, and for a thousand years it will be synonymous with ridicule and scorn!”

Kaile heard the door to the public room open and close again. She was alone in the kitchen when she turned to look. A basket containing the very best bread loaves—the ones meant for the Captain to weigh in his hands—sat on the table near the door.

“I will curse this place!” the goblin roared outside. “Your ale will turn! Your bread will be maggot-ridden! I will visit humiliations upon you in verse!”

Those were the sorts of curses that might stick. The goblin had promised Kaile only that he wouldn’t hurt their oven , so there were all sorts of other aspects of the household that he could still curse without breaking his promise. Kaile made a decision. She told herself that it was a very practical decision as she made it.

She took the basket of bread, the very best bread, and went out into the yard.

It was raining. She hadn’t realized that it was raining. She closed the basket lid and walked through the rain, which dampened down the usual dust-smells of Southside.

“May the River take you!” the goblin went on. “May the floods take your household and drown your bones! I will have our artificer build a pair of gearwork ravens, and they will croak your vile name outside your bedroom window, every night, at irregular intervals. You will never sleep again!” He paused. “Does anyone remember his name?”

Kaile did not want the goblins to curse her father’s name. She did not even want them to curse her mother’s name.

“Cob,” she said, lying outright. “My father’s name is Cob.” All of this was the Snotfish’s fault anyway. Probably. Sort of. Kaile still felt entirely awful as soon as the name was out of her mouth. Now goblin curses might come raining down on her brother to make him sick, or else lure him away to be eaten, or enslaved, or some other miserable thing.

The goblin climbed down from his wagon. Rainwater poured from the brim of his hat like a waterfall. “Cob,” he said. “That is an easy syllable for a gearworked raven to remember and croak at him. What brings you out in the rain, Cob’s daughter?”